She stops just above me, and after years of being backed into a corner by men of questionable integrity and intentions, I immediately draw to my feet.
Sofia is slightly shorter than me, which gives me the advantage I crave in situations such as these. Control freak? Yes, but I have reason to be.
“What’s up?” I say.
She looks me up and down in the age-old dance that women play, but I don’t respond. A: I can’t compete with this woman looks-wise, and B: I’m just too tired of the game. It’s the end of the world. You win, hands down. Geez.
“Nothing,” she purrs. “I was just looking for Cole. Have you seen him?”
Her perfectly defined brow rises at the question, her liquid brown eyes sharp in her sensual face, and I straighten at her words but quell the instinct to “claim my man” ghetto style. I guess I need to eat my words. Popularity contest—1. End of the world—0.
“I’m not sure where he is, out doing chores somewhere,” I say through gritted teeth.
This chick has my bitch radar going off the charts, but I’ve already proven to be a bit violent when it comes to feelings of safety. Killing good old Uncle Dirk in self-defense wasn’t unwarranted, but the stares of some of the group continue because they’re wary and unsure of what to think of the incident.
“Hmm,” she says, her lips curling at the edges. “Thanks for the information.”
Without further ado, she turns away, hips swaying sexily as she makes her way over the grassy terrain, and I glare after her before shaking my head. Yeah, this one is going to be trouble, for me anyway.
???
Michele searches me out a little later, where I’m still tiredly cleaning clothes and hanging them on the line. Eventually, this will be more than a one-person job with the new people that continue to trail in, however slowly. My arms ache, and my back feels like I tackled a 200-pound lineman.
“Hey,” she says behind me before plopping down onto the grass. Michele’s pretty blue eyes glow against her skin, darker than it’s ever been by all the work outside in the sun. Her light blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail, really the only way to wear long hair these days. Although she’s always effortlessly pretty, she looks tired, with fine lines and dark circles decorating her eyes. Then again, who doesn’t?
“Yo,” I reply, glancing at her before going back to my vigorous scrubbing on one of the men’s shirts. Somebody got really dirty, and I do not want to know what I am scrubbing out. Sigh.
She grabs fists full of grass out of the ground, running the slim stalks through her fingers while we sit in silence for a few minutes before I break it. Michele isn’t one to sit around and not talk. “What’s up?”
“Nothing,” she says before looking away, her lips turned down in a frown.
The pensive expression inspires me to stop my back-and-forth motion over the board to focus on her, and my back and arms tingle in gratitude at the reprieve.
Touching her arm, I ask softly, “Is everything okay?”
With a sigh, she nods. “Yeah, I guess I’m just tired.”
“True that. My arms are killing me,” I joke in return, hoping to see a smile grace her face.
“Yeah, that too. But I just mean, I’m tired, Lo. Tired of the constant work, the constant need to be vigilant. This is all so hard, and I guess I’m just now seeing that it’s not gonna end. Like ever.”
Her eyes hold mine and her lip quivers. With a pulse of sympathy, I grasp her hand and squeeze.
“I know. This whole thing is so fucked up. Most days, I don’t allow myself to even think about it. I mean, this is it for the rest of our fucking lives,” I say, waving my hand around the area, ending with the laundry still to do, piled in baskets around us—a case in point.
She sniffles and tears well in her eyes. “I’m just tired.”
“It’s okay to be tired. It’s okay to be sad. Fuck, it’s okay to be angry. THIS SHIT SUCKS!” I shout at the end.
She giggles and mimics my shout. “FUCK YOU, WORLD!”
We fall to the ground laughing, and it warms my heart, reminding me once again that we need more of this to balance out the “that”. We spend every day so focused on survival that we forget we’re human and need a reason to live, a reason to fight. And one of those reasons is lying beside me, laughing hysterically even as tears leak out of her eyes.
“Maybe we should have a party,” I mutter after we’ve calmed down a bit.
“What kind of party?” she asks with a furrowed brow.
“I don’t know—anything. Just to enjoy ourselves for one freaking night,” I say with a pulse of excitement. “We could drink beer, dance, laugh, and enjoy ourselves for one damn night.”